


The Spice of Life

by Innin



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Femslash, PWP, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1331797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innin/pseuds/Innin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even though Nerdanel and Anairë have been lovers for a while, sometimes Anairë wishes for some variety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spice of Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solanaceae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/gifts).



> Written for the [2014 Femslash Porn Battle](http://femslash-today.livejournal.com/589698.html), for the prompts "Nerdanel/Anairë, strap-on, gentle, distraction".

"You can turn around now," Nerdanel says when she tugs the last strap of leather into place. 

Anairë, who is basking naked on the chaiselongue in the sunlight through the studio windows, stretches like an indulgent cat. She shifts around, and a grin curls the corners of her mouth upward in a way that makes Nerdanel feel sure enough to take a step toward her, rather than foolish, inhabiting a role that was not hers to claim. 

"You look beautiful," said Anairë. "It suits you, _Nerda_ nel." The purr in her voice does nothing to make the joke any less awful, any less embarrassing, and Nerdanel feels heat blush up her neck and into her cheeks, a habit that even their long familiarity and gentle ease have not erased, certainly not when such jokes glance off a wound that is yet healing. 

"No jokes like that again," she bids, but despite herself, there is a little laughter in her voice, and when she is close enough, Anairë snatches at the cock she wears and _pulls_ , and Nerdanel stumbles forward with a whoop of full laughter to sit by Anairë's side. 

"So ravenous?" The thing juts from between her thighs, warming to her skin. It still feels odd.

Anairë smirks. "At least now we know the straps hold – I would not want this to come loose while you _fuck_ me with it," she says, her voice part lilt, part leer, part laughter, and her fingers remain curled around the shaft of rosewood a little darker than Nerdanel's hair and beautifully veined. The situation is absurd, almost enough for Nerdanel to want to tug off the harness and declare this a failed experiment, but when they first spoke about it – Anairë confessing that she missed, at times, being taken by a man – Nerdanel had found her mind occupied by the thought until she had gone to the market and selected a few suitable pieces of wood, unable to even look the timber merchant in the eye lest something betray her. 

Making the thing had been easy, mechanic – she had not worked with wood for a while, but the techiques were well-familiar, at last the careful sanding, the polishing for smoothness and gleam, but she had enjoyed that, too, and before she had strapped it on, the painting session – Anairë in sunlight, a canvas drying on the easel now, the faint smell of linseed oil paint – had found her distracted with expectation for the thing that sat in its box on the table... and now?

"We can start slow," Anairë says and Nerdanel nods, glad for someone who is so attuned to her thoughts. They kiss languidly; Anairë has a way of centering and narrowing the world on her partner, until Nerdanel grows light-headed, pulls away and glances at her reflection in the window-glass, her lips kissed a deep red, and _there_ \- a twinge of desire rather than apprehension, and Anairë uncorks the vial of oil that she begins massaging into the wood, over the leather, over Nerdanel's soft stomach and her hips until it trickles down here thighs and stains the chaiselongue. When Anairë eases Nerdanel down and straddles her, moaning as she slides home, she could not care less for stains - and _oh_ \- something Nerdanel had forgotten -- the inner part of the shaft where it rests against her body is carved to fit her, also, Anairë's weight a shifting, gentle, undulating pressure that puts it into effect, making Nerdanel's hips lift of their own accord, the rhythm becoming less gentle and more eager --- 

_Perhaps_ , Nerdanel thinks, before her thoughts lose all coherency and Anairë guides her hands to begin touching her, _perhaps she could get used to this_.

**Author's Note:**

>  _nerda_ : adjective, likely derived from _nerdo_ , "large, strong man". Yep, it's that kind of joke.


End file.
